


The Dream Of The Fisherman’s Wife

by qodarkness



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And the title is a REALLY BIG WARNING, But like only the tiniest bit of plot, But not at work!, F/M, Google it if you want to be sure, Look there are tentacles, Porn With Plot, Tentacle Sex, The kraken prince, and porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26542918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qodarkness/pseuds/qodarkness
Summary: She dreams of Theon.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35





	The Dream Of The Fisherman’s Wife

She dreams of Theon. 

It is always the same dream. She wakes and walks through a dark and sleeping Winterfell, into the Godswood, to the clearing before the heart tree. It is always autumn in her dreams, the leaves bright red and falling from the trees, matching her hair, the only points of colour in a grey landscape. He is there, seated on the stone she had placed to mark the spot where he fell. 

At first she had done nothing but fall at his feet, the sense of loss so great that she could do nothing but weep into the leaves that carpeted the ground, as bright and vivid as the blood that had spilled from him there. It was his death that had become the touchstone for all that she had lost, all the family and friends that had fallen and died, or had walked away and left her alone. The lonely Queen in the cold North, innocence and joy and bright golden dreams all stripped away from her. She was hard now, and strong, showing the world only her polished steel facade. It was only in her dreams of Theon that she let herself weep for all that had been taken from her. 

But she keeps dreaming, night after night, and, eventually, weeping grows dull. 

A night came at last where she did not fall down in front of him, but sat instead on the ground at his feet. He watched her, those sea-green, ocean-blue eyes that she knew had watched her all the nights she had wept before him. He did not move from where he sat, but his hair moved gently, as if it swayed in an ocean’s current.

Finally, bereft of anything else to do, and tired of weeping, she began to tell him of her day, of her life as Queen in the North, of the problems that kept being laid before her, the knots that the older Lords brought to her as if they were too dull to sort out their own feuding smallfolk and crop failures and winter storage. They were testing her, she knew, testing to see how far they could push this young Queen, how much they could get away with. She could seek no counsel because there was no-one she could yet trust. 

So Sansa solved all the problems that were brought to her, wrestling with them at all hours so that she could never be seen to be weak, never be seen to fail. 

She did it alone, she told Theon, as he sat on the stone marked with his name, his hair moving in invisible waters, and she was tired. Tired of being tested, tired of having to be strong, tired of having no-one she trusted to talk through her problems.

“Tell me,” said Theon and his voice seemed far away and yet so soft a whisper that she almost felt his breath brush against her ear, as if he stood but a finger’s-breadth from her. Except he no longer breathed and was sat still upon his stone. 

So she told him. She told him all the knotted puzzles and the jibes and sly tests set for her by so many northern Lords. He talked through them with her, far wiser than she remembered him ever being as a youth, but she guessed that being dead may have given him a whole new perspective on ruling. Either that, or he had learned a great deal that had died with him at the Night King’s hand. 

He gave her the benefit of all the things he had learned, in her dreams. 

In the day, the Lords were coddled and chastised, limited and schooled, chivied and driven, each in their turn and to suit their ways, until even the most stiff-necked recognised that he was not going to best his Queen and bent the knee before her. 

“And people keep saying you need a Hand,” scoffed Bessa, Sansa’s maid, as she helped Sansa dress her hair one night, after Lord Glover had turned up at Winterfell’s gates with his long overdue taxes in the carts that followed him. “You are far too clever yourself, your Grace, to need a Hand.”

~ _But I have a Hand,~_ Sansa did not say. ~ _He is dead and he lives in the Godswood and I dream of him every night and he is my Hand.~_

Sansa did not wish to be thought mad, so she did not say such things, but only smiled gently and thanked Bessa for the compliment. 

There was only one problem she did not bring to Theon. The missives from within the North, from the South, even from Essos, that suggested alliances through marriage. She did not bring them to Theon because each was dealt with before the day they arrived was done, a single curt response sent firmly under her name, that the Queen in the North had no intention of marrying again so soon after being made a widow. She did not feel it was necessary to remind those men of how she had made herself a widow. 

But one came, finally, so insulting that she could not help herself, even in her dreams. “Sweetrobin! Robin Arryn! That little… that treacherous, nasty, lickspittle boy!” she raged at Theon. “I can understand they might counsel him that it is a good match, but his letter… that patronising little…” Sansa stopped herself, her chest heaving as she caught her breath in anger. 

“You are the Queen,” said Theon, his voice far away, close at hand. “The lords of the North are loyal to you now. No matter the strength of the Knights of the Vale, they would defend you if the Arryn boy was foolish enough to try and press his suit. You can afford to dismiss him outright.”

“I already have,” said Sansa, flipping her hand impatiently. “The same as I do all the others.”

“There have been others?” Theon asked. “You have not said.” 

“So many others,” said Sansa and shrugged. “I will not marry them and I tell them so.”

“Alliances can bring great power,” said Theon, gently. “Great safety. Would there be none you would consider?”

She looked at him then, and it was like her heart gave a great turn, letting her suddenly see what she should have known long before. “No,” she whispered. 

“Sansa?” asked Theon, when she said nothing more.

“There is no one living who I want to marry,” she said, and she crossed to where he sat still upon his stone, his hair drifting in the current, and kneeled down before him. When Theon did not move, she leaned forward and cupped his cheek with her hand. The first touch of her lips on his was soft, uncertain, untutored, until his lips parted beneath hers and she grew hungry, greedy for him, greedy to taste him and be tasted by him. His hands stole up behind her, drew her to him, hard against his chest and she laced her fingers through his hair, tried almost to melt into him, to bring him out of the dream with her into the waking world. 

It was not to be. Finally, reluctantly, Theon drew back from her, her mouth following his greedily as he moved away, laying gentle kisses on her lips, her cheeks, her brow, her neck. 

His hands cradled her face, so close to his, staring at her as if he could impress every part of her into his memory. 

“Sansa,” he said, far away, a whisper against her mouth.

And vanished.

*****

Each night she went to the Godswood, always autumn there, the leaves like blood against the ground. 

Each night the stone that bore his name was just a stone. 

Each night she fell down before it and wept.

She grew pale and thinner, dark circles beneath her eyes, but she told no-one of why she mourned anew. 

Until one night she sat in the Godswood, before the stone, and thought of Theon there, of how he had sat, still upon the stone, his hair waving in the current, and she realised what he had been doing all of that time.

He had been waiting.

When she woke that morning, from a deep and refreshing sleep, she called her Master at Arms to her. “I need a small party of guards,” she said. “I wish to travel and I wish to travel light and swift.”

“Where are you going, your Grace?” he asked.

“To the sea,” Sansa said. “I go to the sea.”

*****

They thought she had meant White Harbor or the shores past Deepwood Motte, and the Master at Arms had baulked when she told him that she meant to go to the Stony Shore. She had over-ridden his objections, however, and when she told him that she would go to the Stony Shore whether her guard accompanied her or not, they had reluctantly completed their preparations. The trip across her lands was swift, avoiding as many holdings as they could; Sansa’s trip was not a secret, as such, but she had no particular intention to let people know where she was going. Finally they had reached the Shore and found a small cottage near the edge of the bleak sea that was obviously long empty. Sansa moved in, her men camping nearby. 

It was a week before she told the Master at Arms that they must leave her. She wasn’t sure it was a rebellion, when they were rebelling because they wanted to keep her safe, but it came very close to them refusing her orders. It was only when they reluctantly conceded that they had seen not a single soul in the last week and that Sansa would allow them to return at daybreak the next day that they finally agreed to move their camp away for the span of a day and a night. 

She had thought to do what she planned at daybreak, but the waters of the Sunset Sea were grey and bleak, the colour of old ice, bitter against her skin. It took her until near midday to gather the courage to do what she must and only the thought that Theon had waited for so long at last led her to shed her clothes, down to her smallclothes and walk at last into the sea.

She had learned to swim in the hot springs at Winterfell, as much as a girl of the north could learn, driven to it, in part, by the fun that Robb and Theon had splashing around in warm water on the nights of the Long Summer. She wasn’t a particularly strong swimmer but her iron will and the flame of her conviction that what she was doing was right drove her far further out into the sea than she had thought she could manage. She stopped only when the shore was lost from her sight, when she was so cold she had gone past shivering into a state where she could barely feel her limbs. 

She trod water for a short while, offering a prayer to the old gods and the new, steeling herself. Then she took a final, deep breath and dived. Down, down she swam, down into the cold and the dark, her arms cleaving through the water long past the time when she thought her breath would fail her. But finally it became too much, too hard to hold onto the air that ached in her lungs, too hard to make her arms move again, pull her down.

~ _Please,~_ thought Sansa. Her last thought, as the world began to go black.

And then the depths of the ocean beneath her brightened and _rose_. It was a vast bulk, a great thing that filled all of the space beneath her, far beyond the size of the leviathan of legend. But it rose and dwindled and lessened as it came, the process fascinating Sansa so much that she forgot the ache in her chest, the cold in her limbs, watching only as the great rising kraken drew itself in, grew denser and smaller. Finally it hovered just beneath her and it was the same size as her, its great opalescent eyes watching her. A tentacle reached out and touched her cheek and she drew a breath, a breath again, her limbs suddenly warm and weightless in the water. This was magic, she knew, old magic and it was all around her, keeping her safe in the dark and the depths of the ocean. 

Thankful, she reached up her hand, captured the tentacle that touched her cheek and drew it to her mouth, kissed it in gratitude as she looked into the eyes of the kraken. And then…

And then…

Her lips parted and the end of the tentacle reached into her mouth, touched the end of her tongue, so lightly, so gently, but she chased it as it drew away from her. Her head fell back with a moan into the sea as other tentacles reached up, slid under her smallclothes, parted the cloth until the fabric slipped away from her into the sea, falling down into the dark, leaving her naked and hanging in the water. Sansa cried out as a tentacle slipped around her breast, cupped it, the tip of the tentacle caressing her nipple until it stood firm and erect. Another tentacle rose from the body of the kraken, did the same for her other nipple, as other tentacles rose, their soft tips caressing her skin, her neck, her belly, her thighs. All of her was suddenly caressed, every inch of skin rippling with sensation. 

After Ramsay, there had not been a single living man that Sansa had ever wanted to touch her in that way again. Only one man, and he was already dead when she had realised what she had wanted. 

But she wanted the kraken now, wanted it because she knew, wanted it because this was the oldest of magic and then the tentacle between her thighs reached up and the tip of it slid over her pearl and she cried out into the sea. She opened her thighs wide then, opened herself to the tip of tentacle caressing her pearl, rocking her entrance hard against the limb of the kraken as it slid between her thighs, until everything behind her eyes went white and she cried out into the sea as she peaked and fell and fell and fell into the depths of the sea.

It seemed to take a long time before she could open her eyes again, until she could finally look down into the opalescent eyes of the kraken that hung beneath her still, cradling her whole body within its limbs. 

She wanted it. She wanted to give it what it had given her. But it did not move, only cradled her in the sea, within its limbs.

Waiting.

Always waiting.

Until she knew what she wanted. 

She reached down, caressed the body of the kraken. “My kraken prince,” she whispered into the sea. “Theon Greyjoy.”

There was a _shift_. Like the shift there was in dreams, when the world moved sideways and you just accepted that what was now, was what had always been. For a moment, Sansa wondered if she was still in her bed in Winterfell, if this was all just a dream. For only a moment and then she did not care if this was a dream or if this was real.

For Theon Greyjoy held her in his arms.

“Sansa,” he said. 

“You waited,” she replied.

“I would have waited forever,” he whispered and leaned forward, his mouth leaving marks in the hollow of her neck.

“Theon,” she whispered and then her head fell back as the tentacle between her thighs shifted, caressed her pearl again, was joined by others that caressed her entrance, parted the delicate leaves that nestled between her thighs, opening her. She hissed as the tentacles that curled around her breasts shifted again, caressed her nipples back to firmness. 

“Sansa,” said Theon, as he caressed her pearl, opened her to him with delicate probing movements. “Will you have me?”

She lifted her head then, looked into his eyes. “I take you, Theon Greyjoy,” she said.

There was a clang then, inside her head and she knew from the look on Theon’s face that he heard it too. Like a great iron door shutting, or maybe opening, and the voice (and it was the voice of a god, she knew that, the Drowned God’s voice) said suddenly, “It is done.” 

Then the tentacles around her thighs tightened and opened her again and the two delicate ones that probed her entrance drew her open like a blooming flower and she was filled then. Theon’s hips drove forward and she was utterly filled, a sense of completeness she had never expected. Then the tentacle on her pearl caressed her again as Theon thrust into her and she forgot everything except the feel of him filling her and her skin rippling as she was stroked from head to toe, cradled in the limbs of her kraken prince, and her cry into the sea barely preceded his as they peaked and fell together.

*****

They walked from the sea together in the soft light just before the dawn, hand in hand and naked, unselfconscious because who was there to see them?

Except the Master at Arms and the guard had fretted over their Queen and come back to the shore early and so witnessed the rebirth of Theon Greyjoy, the kraken prince, from the sea. 

Two went mad immediately, but Sansa ensured afterwards that their families were well cared for and the men themselves well-tended by the Septs. The rest developed lesser religious mania but all were able to continue essentially functional, if somewhat fanatically devoted, lives. 

The devotion of the men at least helped the more sceptical of the northern Lords accept that Theon Greyjoy had returned from the dead at the behest of the Drowned God and that standing against Sansa’s intention to marry him would be unwise. The marriage may have appeared hasty but Sansa considered that she had married Theon in front of the Drowned God, beneath the sea, and so did not delay. 

Bessa, who tended the Queen when she bathed, decided very quickly, at the Queen’s behest, not to speak of the sucker-marks that wound around the Queen’s thighs, that curled around her breasts and over her nipples. In all outwards appearances, the Queen’s Hand, Theon Greyjoy, was a perfectly normal human man and obviously anything that suggested differently was a figment of Bessa’s imagination.

*****

Queen Sansa holds court in Winterfell, listening to yet another northern Lord tell her of how his smallfolk are filling his life with woe. Her loyal Hand and husband, Theon Greyjoy, sits close at her side. 

Beneath her skirts, Sansa parts her thighs as a tentacle slides over her pearl, as another slides inside of her, filling her as her hips rock back and forth, imperceptible. 

**Author's Note:**

> So someone mentioned The Dream Of The Fisherman’s Wife yesterday morning on Twitter for reason. And the entire plot of this bit of serious smut turned up in my head immediately. 
> 
> I mean, being the kraken prince has got to have some serious benefits, right? Also, magic and gods and Theon has all of his man bits back, but also... extras.


End file.
